


there’s a long way to go (before we can lose)

by findingkairos



Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 14:04:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/findingkairos/pseuds/findingkairos
Summary: When the Crown Prince Arslan is born, there are no other fair-haired children in all of Pars; and women cannot inherit the throne.





	there’s a long way to go (before we can lose)

**Author's Note:**

> Arslan breaks gender norms of both kinds, Farangis is supportive, Daryun is getting gray hairs before he’s thirty, and Gieve wants the Parsian equivalent of popcorn.

It’s Farangis that finds out the secret first.

The priestess is frighteningly perceptive on her own, and that combined with her relationship with the Djinn makes for a canny eye. She is no stranger, either, to the bandages that wrap around Arslan’s chest or the careful way that he avoids bathing with the others. As a Crown Prince, he’d not had to deal with folk who had more curiosity than a sense of honor, peeking at their would-be liege in the bath, and his attendants had all been sworn to secrecy and threatened with a quiet death by the royal throne of Pars. 

In the wilderness, fleeing from Lusitania, heartsick and frightened and keeping hold of his resolution with fingers that were tightening their grip with the strength that his companions are lending him, Arslan has no strength to argue with her when she sits down next to him at the campfire and says, “Does Lord Daryun know?”

It is a fair question. That doesn’t make it any less terrifying, the automatic denial surging to Arslan’s tongue before he can swallow it. She knows, he can see in her eyes and the way she gives him space.

Daryun and Narsus are discussing their next moves and Elam and Gieve have gone hunting, and so Arslan only pushes his shoulders back and says, “No. He does not. I believe Erān Vahriz – his uncle – had, but I don’t think he was ever able to mention it to Daryun.”

It is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because he has been able to avoid any awkwardness with a Daryun that meant well but did not understand. A curse, because every time that Daryun smiles his wry smile and looks away before Arslan undresses for a quick dip in the river, every time that he raises his eyebrows when Arslan turns away to readjust his chest bandages, every time Arslan runs short of breath when they cannot afford to stop for the night even to rest and for Arslan to remove those bandages in secret – he wants to say something. 

And yet he cannot. It is more than his lord father and lady mother’s word and wishes commanding him now, as it had been when he’d been younger and unknowing of what was happening. It is uncertainty, and fear, and the sinking feeling in his heart whenever he looks upon the map and sees how much ground they’ve yet to cover before they reach Peshawar. 

“To tell him now will – change things,” Arslan continues. It will change the way he looks at me; no longer will he respect me as Crown Prince, he does not say, but surely Farangis hears. 

It is what has been drilled into him for fourteen years, by royals and attendants and servants alike: Arslan must always be striving to be better, stronger, faster, braver, for he is the Crown Prince. He is the one who is his lord father’s heir. He must prove himself, and he must do it by valor and prowess in battle.

Farangis eyes him for a long moment; then she dips her head. Says, quietly, “I do not think that Lord Daryun or Lord Narsus will think less of you were you to tell them; but very well. Will you require aid in checking your ribs?”

Arslan has yet to injure his ribs and be cornered into an awkward conversation that way, thank all the gods. He shakes his head, pulling his cloak tighter around himself, and makes himself ignore the looks that Daryun has started to throw at him, now that he’s realized Farangis is sitting with him. “Thank you,” he tells her, “the offer is appreciated, but it’s not needed.” He smiles, because he is truly thankful. Farangis even smiles back.

And that is that, until Peshawar.

* * *

Many things change, at the keep. First there is Bahman with his odd actions and secretive ways; then there is Silver Mask, revealing his heritage. The man who’s been working with Lusitania to defeat Pars at the Fields of Atropatene – the man who has brought fire and ruin to the citizens of Pars, in the form of zealous Lusitanians – is himself a prince. The son of Osroes, the King before Andragoras. Arslan’s own lord cousin.

Then the Sindhurans attack, and it would be a good distraction were it not for the threat of invasion. But eventually, things calm down. They make peace with the Sindhurans, after a fashion. They settle the unrest at the eastern border. They return home.

Farangis has kept his secret until now, and with the added formality of being the Crown Prince at Peshawar, Arslan has had enough of a buffer to avoid any awkward conversations or servants who have loose lips and enough curiosity to look. 

But when he sees Etoile without a helmet, Arslan’s first thought is, _He is like me._

And then, because Etoile still refers to herself as a girl: _No, she is not. But perhaps something close._

“I am Etoile. Estelle is a girl’s name,” the Lusitanian squire in Arslan’s dungeon declares. “I have thrown it away.”

Etoile tells the story in bits and pieces. Arslan listens.

* * *

Daryun doesn’t treat Etoile with contempt, or disgust, or revulsion. He is confused, yes, but ultimately he is accepting of the girl’s choices of herself and of her own body and of her name.

It is not quite what Arslan is looking for, but it’s close enough that when Farangis looks to him knowingly, after the burial ceremony, he doesn’t look away.

* * *

In his mind’s eye, he can see the tall figure of his lady mother. The broad back of his lord father. Then he squares his shoulders, looks Kishward in the eye, and says, “I am still the same Arslan you knew in Ecbatana. I am no less than I was before.”

“No,” Kishward says, full of awe and reverence, “you are more.”

“Congratulations on your rebirth, your highness,” Narsus says, and his knowing smile is more comforting than panic-inducing.

* * *

Later Arslan admits, “I might have been forced, but I cannot say that I would not have one day chosen this for myself, had I known of it.”

“There have been no girl-kings,” Gieve replies. He strums his oud, a series of nonsensical notes that nonetheless sounds as musical as any of the olden ballads. “Well, not in the history of Pars, anyway.”

The emphasis on Pars leaves little to the imagination. “You speak of Serica.”

“They have a Knight Princess there, I’ve heard, and no one speaks ill of her.” To his credit, Gieve sounds more confused than accusing. 

“His Highness’s reasons are his own,” Narsus concludes. He closes his eyes. “There is habit, for one thing – a childhood of being referred to and treated as a male prince cannot be changed overnight. And unfortunately, Pars is no Serica, that the knights and soldiers of the realm would answer a woman’s call as quickly or as enthusiastically as a man’s. There might be a moralistic advantage, of course, if it were known that we had a princess of the blood instead of a prince; but in Pars, a woman cannot inherit land nor title. It must be a man.”

“Not that His Highness will be taking a wife anytime soon,” Gieve snorts, and cuts a glance at Daryun. The implication is clear. Daryun ignores it. 

Farangis smiles. Arslan tilts his head, confused. “You know,” Gieve continues conversationally, something sharp glinting in his eyes, “men have breasts, too.”

If Arslan were a lesser person he would have choked. As it is, he merely coughs his lungs out.

“That’s not to say that’s the life for me, but if that is what your heart desires – why, your highness, you should pursue it!”

Anything else that Gieve would have said is quickly cut off as Daryun sends a glare at him potent enough to cut down armies where they stand, much less a single musician armed with an oud, but Arslan is too busy smiling - too busy being in awe of his friends, of his fears melting away like so much snow on a summer day - to care.  


**Author's Note:**

> Happy Pride Month to everybody! I wanted to write a little more for this fic, but I think this stands pretty well as it is, short and sweet. Maybe I'll come back one day to write more for this universe; maybe not. Either way, I hope Arslan and his company finds a better ending than canon.


End file.
